


Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes

by Greens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greens/pseuds/Greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns that Mycroft really does love his little brother and Sherlock still writes letters to Father Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes

**December, 2012**

 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock very much enjoyed Christmas. He would help John decorate the flat, he would play Christmas music and he would host the Christmas party every year. Each December, John believed he was getting a glimpse of what Sherlock had been like as a child. Where-as the holiday season made most others crazy and stressed, John found that this was when Sherlock was most at ease.

 

It was nearly ten in the evening when John and Sherlock returned to their flat at 221b Baker Street. John laughed heartily as he managed to push open the door, followed by Sherlock who helped him drag a small Christmas tree inside.

 

“I still don’t know how you manage it,” John said. “Every year you talk some poor cabbie into letting us strap a tree to the roof of his car.”

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock explained as he helped John carry the tree up the stairs. “When I was a boy, I would go with Mycroft and my father to get an evergreen. Mycroft always managed to get the cabbie to agree to bring us home with no questions asked.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to share the secret with me?” John asked as he and Sherlock slowly settled the tree into its new home to the left of the window.  Sherlock remained silent. “I suppose it’ll stay a family secret.”

 

Sherlock stepped back and took a quick look at the tree. He gave it a nod of approval. “We’ve outdone ourselves again this year,” he said. “You didn’t _even_ have to bulldoze through any groups of small children.”

 

“That—was not my fault,” John defended, remembering the year before. He hadn’t been watching where he was going and had ploughed right through a group of kids.  “I didn’t see them!” John would have sworn he saw Sherlock’s shoulders shake once with laughter, but said nothing and just laughed aloud for both of them. “We did outdo ourselves though, you’re right.” He paused. “I’m beat. I’m going to make some tea. You want anything?” John started to walk into the kitchen when a small envelope caught his eye.

 

“Coffee.” Sherlock replied.

 

“What’s this?” Curiosity winning out, John walked back into the room holding the envelope.

 

“A letter,” Sherlock replied simply.

 

“To Father Christmas?” He asked, pointing to the name written on the envelope.

 

“Not precisely.”

 

“You do know that Father Christmas…”

 

“I know that,” Sherlock responded defensively. He approached John and pulled the letter from his hand.

 

“But you still write a letter,” John continued gently. This was a surprise from the methodical, grounded in reality, Sherlock Holmes that John knew.

 

“It’s more for myself, really.” Sherlock explained, taking a seat on the sofa. “Something I’ve done since I was a boy.” Sherlock paused. “Well—when I was a boy, I did actually write to Father Christmas. And every year, the one thing I really wanted would show up under our tree.” John took a seat across from him as Sherlock continued his story. “I was convinced that my parents were getting hold of my letter, so when I was eight years old, I decided that I didn’t believe in Father Christmas any longer. I wasn’t going to write him again.”

 

“So what happened?” John asked.

 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock did smile then, remembering.

 

“You were close as boys.” John deduced.

 

“We fought. A lot. He was much older than I and never wanted me tagging along, or ‘bothering’ him while he was ‘studying’.  But he looked after me, in his own way.”

 

Like now, John thought.

 

“He knew—when I was upset.” Sherlock continued. “And he knew when things had changed.”

 

*****

 

**December, 1985**

 

“Croft!” Sherlock yelled from his bedroom. When he received no answer, he padded his way down the stairs, still calling out. “Croft!”

 

Mycroft sat in a chair in the main room reading a book. He rolled his eyes at the sound of his little brother’s calling. “I do wish you would use my real name. You’re much too old for nicknames, Sherlock.”

 

“What are you reading?” Sherlock asked, sitting cross legged in front of his brother.

 

“A book.”

 

“I can see that.” Sherlock sulked. “What kind of book?”

 

Mycroft closed his book and set it aside.  “What do you want, Sherlock? You need me to read your letter to Father Christmas, is that it?”

 

Sherlock dropped his head and frowned. “No,” he said softly.

 

“Do you need me to help you write it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly, emulating their father.

 

“I’m not writing one,” Sherlock said. “He’s not real. There’s no such thing as Father Christmas.”

 

Mycroft’s shoulders fell. “What do you mean Father Christmas doesn’t exist?”

 

“He doesn’t. I know he doesn’t. I know that it’s really Mummy and Father. You don’t believe in him.”

 

“Of course I do,” Mycroft lied.

 

Sherlock looked up at his brother and cocked his head to the side. “You do? How come you never write him letters anymore?”

 

Mycroft thought quickly. “I—do,” he replied. “I write it when you go to bed and then I hide it so nobody will find it.” Sherlock simply looked at his brother, waiting. “Mummy and Father never see my letter.”

 

“And Father Christmas still brings you presents.” Sherlock smiled in realization.

 

“So if nobody sees my letter,” Mycroft continued. “How can Father Christmas not exist?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair. “You’re very smart, Sherlock. If I’m the only person who sees my letter…”

 

“Then Father Christmas is real?”

 

“So go back to your room, write your letter and then—I’ll hide it where I hide mine.”

Sherlock smiled widely and bounded to his feet. “Thanks, Croft!” Sherlock ran at full speed back up the stairs. If Mycroft still believed in Father Christmas, he must be real. He dug through his desk and pulled out a pencil and piece of paper. Sherlock’s handwriting was sloppy as he scribbled:

 

_Dear Father Christmas,_

_My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m eight years old. You already know that though, because, well, you’re Father Christmas. This year for Christmas I want a chemistry set. The one that I saw in Hamleys with Mummy. The glass one, not the plastic one. But if you can’t bring me that, there is one thing that I really want this year.  My brother Mycroft is fifteen and sometimes I think I bother him. I really want him to spend some time with me. I really like that he reads all the time, and the books he reads look really good. If you could maybe get Mycroft to tell me one of those stories, I would like that very much._

_Happy Christmas._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

Sherlock took his letter, folded it three times and placed it in an envelope. He trusted Mycroft to keep it safe. With a bright smile, he ran back to the stairs. “Croft! I’m finished!”

 

*****

 

**Christmas, 1985**

 

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. He very slowly and very gently removed each glass piece of his brand new chemistry set and admired it. He smiled happily as he looked around. Mycroft sat aside with a brand new book, reading quietly to himself. He looked up momentarily and caught Sherlock gazing in his direction.

 

“What’s your book about?” Sherlock asked.

 

“It’s an adventure story. Sailors, treasure, pirates.”

 

“Pirates?” Sherlock smiled. “Is it good?”

 

Mycroft took a deep breath. He knew what his brother wanted. “Come on, Sherlock,” he called the boy over.  “I’ll read it to you.”

 

Sherlock smiled brightly. Father Christmas had gotten his letter. He was real.

 

*****

 

**December, 2012**

 

“Mycroft never did admit to reading that letter.” Sherlock shook his head. “Even when the day came that I knew, Mycroft said nothing.”

 

“And you still write,” John said.

 

“For myself,” Sherlock explained.  “Every Christmas I make a list of things that would be nice to have or do. I seal it and store it away.”

 

“That’s actually—a brilliant story.” John smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock simply shrugged. He got to his feet and approached John. “With that,” he said, standing beside him. “I’m going to bed.”

 

John rested his hand atop Sherlock’s for a moment. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

John waited and watched as Sherlock slipped away and disappeared into the bedroom. He slowly stood and made his way back towards the door, where his coat hung. He dug into the pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, inside which, sat two gold bands.  He didn’t know what Sherlock had written in his letter this year, but John hoped that come Christmas morning this would fulfill one of Sherlock’s wishes. It was certainly going to fulfill one of his own.

 

End :)

  
Thank you, seraphina_snape for the lovely artwork!!!!

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** This was my submission for the 221b_advent calendar. And while I feel like I've been writing my holmes_big_bang fic forever, this is actually my very first complete Sherlock fic:) Just a little Christmas fluff. I hope you enjoyed it. I also want to thank impulsereader and quarryquest once again for coming through last minute for me to beta this story. You guys are awesome! Comments = LOVE!


End file.
